


Prior Engagements Outtake: How I Met Your Father

by PlaidAdder



Series: Wild About Harry [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Gen, Outtake, prior engagements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:15:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22912315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlaidAdder/pseuds/PlaidAdder
Summary: I wrote this flashback for "Prior Engagements" that I then decided not to use. I'm posting it here in case anyone wants it. It's about how Agnes got the assignment for that original mission. Takes place probably about 6 months before "The Empty Hearse" and contains MANY spoilers for "Prior Engagements." If you've read PE, this fills in some of the gaps in Mary Morstan's AGRA backstory. If you haven't read PE, well, this is my attempt at explaining how Mary Morstan wound up married to John Watson, and most of it will probably make sense.
Relationships: Mary Morstan & John Watson
Series: Wild About Harry [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/94898
Comments: 5
Kudos: 26





	Prior Engagements Outtake: How I Met Your Father

**_Originally this appeared in the middle of a conversation with Harry, told from Mary’s point of view, in which she pauses to ask herself the question:_ **

Had she really been jealous of Sherlock? Had she ever, truly, actually wanted John Watson?

Of course she had wanted him the way one always wants the Mark–the way ordinary people wanted a luxury car, or a big country house, or any other symbol of success. John was special, at first, only because he was already famous–and because this was an important job. They never told you at first who the target was; there was no sense in the operative knowing potentially dangerous information until she had actually hit the Mark. But it was pretty clear that it had to be Mycroft. Sherlock was, at the time, presumed dead. Mycroft was the highest priority target on the AGRA list, and the hardest to reach. A soft takeout had been tried with Adela, using Moriarty as the patsy. But the intended scandal followed by resignation had failed to come off. The Holmes brothers got the phone away from her, her demands were never acceded to, and the information on the phone was so damaging to AGRA that MI6 felt compelled to reward Mycroft instead of sacking him. AGRA and MI6 had always hated each other. Technically they cooperated on covert operations; but they shared information only when absolutely necessary and they stuck it to each other whenever possible. Mycroft was the most effective showrunner MI6 ever had, and certainly the first to recognize the sweep of AGRA’s influence and the extent of its power. But somehow, Adela had come out of that scrape without being stripped. Nobody at MI6 ever knew that Irene Adler was an AGRA girl.

So they moved on to the hard takeout. And Mary could still remember the gut-churning adrenaline rush she felt when she got that first coded message. AGNES. REPORT FOR DUTY. SIR.

She had received communications from Sir in the past, of course; that started to happen when you rose up the ranks. But the call to report typically came from the mission director. Sir was never the mission director. If Sir wanted her to report, it could only be about something else. Something most likely dangerous, perhaps fatal.

But the most fatal thing of all was to refuse to report. Guaranteed Action Alpha.

So she went to the link and she decoded the instructions and she arrived at the transition point and she got into the back of the sleek black car right next to Anthea who was wearing that same damned AGRA Affect smile and who said not a thing until she pulled out the little silver canister of Mist and by the time the mist had cleared, Mary was in that room. The round room at the center of the hub. The room with no visible entrances or exits. The room everyone knew existed, but to which nobody had ever been. The room containing Sir.

The walls were the same translucent but opaque glass that they used all over the complex. Probably he could have thousands of windows open, all around the room, from the floor to the high domed ceiling. At that moment, however, there was nothing emanating from the walls except a pallid glow that served as a light source. Sir was backlit and front-lit at the same time; they all were. Sir, and Mary, and Anthea, who sat behind her own curved desk on the opposite side of the cylinder, watching Mary as she rose from the heap into which she’d been dropped, and stood to attention to face him.

What surprised her was that Sir was so ordinary. He could have been any one of the hundreds of military men that had passed in and out of Mary’s field of operation since her training began. He was wearing a civilian suit, and his uncovered pate was bald as an egg. He made up for it with a robust moustache and goatee, both of a vague reddish-brown and apparently untouched by gray.

“Agnes Grace,” said Sir.

“Yes, sir.”

Sir had a tablet out on his desk and was paging through it.

“Highest batting average in the organization.”

This was a thing that had migrated into the AGRA lexicon from their CIA cousins. It had something to do with baseball, but what it meant was the percentage of targets assigned that you actually killed.

“I wasn’t aware of that, sir.”

“Of course not,” he murmured, bending over the tablet.

Because nobody would tell you what their batting average really was, and the information was never released by management.

“Equally favorable marks for speed and cleanliness.”

“You’re very generous, sir.”

“I am not generous. I am accurate,” he corrected, lifting his head.

“Yes, sir,” she said, lowering her eyes.

“Anthea,” he barked. “Display the casefile.”

Images began unfolding on the walls around her, stacks of photos and document facsimilies racing each other up their Jacob’s Ladders toward the ceiling. John’s entire life up to that point. Things he still didn’t know that she knew.

“I’ll give you thirty minutes to absorb it, and then I shall want your analysis,” Sir said.

Mary took fifteen. “I’m ready, sir.”

Sir sat back in his chair, exchanging glances with Anthea. “

Proceed.”

“Dr. John Hamish Watson,” Mary began. “Mother died in 2005 of cardiac arrest; Watson was present and intervened but failed to save her. Failed to establish a regular medical practice in the years that followed. Volunteered for the Afghan campaign in 2008. Wounded in action in 2010 and has made no attempt to return after convalescence. Patriotism never a deep motivator. Diagnosed with PTSD but symptoms appear to be atypical. Working unpaid for the past two years as manager, press agent, bodyguard, and chronicler of the late Sherlock Holmes.”

Sir knew all this, of course. Mary took a deep breath for the risky part.

“Quite a bit of abandonment in his history. Father’s whereabouts unknown since 1982. Older sister Harriet, apparently close to him during childhood, full-blown alcoholic by 2001. Contact with her decreases rapidly until 2009 at which point they reach their current state of estrangement. Mother’s death possibly hastened by prescription drug abuse. Been quite some time since Watson had anyone to rely on. Relationship with Sherlock Holmes quite intimate and no doubt satisfying but leaves an enormous need for nurturing unmet. Same for his quite active romantic life.”

“Detail,” said Sir.

“Multiple short-term relatinoships with younger female partners,” Mary said. “Partners decrease in age and increase in Standard Attractiveness Rating as Sherlock Holmes’s fame increases. Length of relationship also decreases. In all cases breakup is initiated by the partner. In all cases Sherlock Holmes is cited by partner as a primary cause.”

Sir nodded. “Recommended plan of approach.”

Mary smiled her best AGRA Affect smile. She could feel Anthea’s eyes on the back of her head.

“Watson’s longest romantic relationship was with this woman,” Mary said, gesturing up at one of the walls. “Sarah Sawyer. Success factors: close to Watson’s own age, chose nurturing profession, intelligent, sense of humor, willing to tolerate Sherlock Holmes. Up to a point of course. New factors in play since Sawyer’s era: death of Sherlock Holmes, chronic depression, incipient alcoholism and financial insecurity of John Watson.”

“Go on,” said Sir, a touch impatiently.

“Suggested operative identity,” Mary hurred on. “No more than three years over or under Watson’s actual age. In health care profession. Empathetic. Undemanding. Patient. Good listener. His needs before her own. But not a doormat. Watson obviously attracted to strong personalities.”

“Appearance?” Sir inquired, with a show of indifference.

Mary looked up at the ring near the ceiling, where all the photos of John’s parents’ wedding were displayed.

“Blonde,” she said. “Harlow gold.”

“Explain.”

“Mother is a natural blonde. Outdoor wedding circa 1967, long straight hair, no styling, no bra, no veil. Harlow gold transforms mother’s look, evokes both Watson’s childhood yearnings and adult tastes. Note for the whole operation. Remind him of his mother but never in a way that allows him to realize that. Replace her and Sherlock Holmes at the same time.”

Sir looked at her. Of course she had no idea what he was thinking, but she tried to tell herself it was good.

“When were you born, Agnes?”

“As far as can be determined, sir, it was either 1973 or 1974.”

“Flirt with me,” sir demanded, brusquely.

“But sir,” Mary replied. “This is all so sudden.” She gave him an appraising look, tweaking one corner of her mouth in a half-smile. “It’s easy seen you’re a man of action, but are you always so…precipitate?”

Sir said, “Where’s the Irish coming from?”

Mary reverted to her neutral accent. “Mother’s name is Maura O'Connell, born in Dublin.”

“Born in Dublin, raised in Manchester,” Sir returned. “Leave off the accent and the lilt. Try again.”

Manchester. Brassier then.

“Flirt with you?” Mary demanded, raising her eyebrows a fraction. “I wouldn’t flirt with you, sir, under pain of death or threat of torture. No, it’s true. Oh, don’t start with the sad brown lonely eyes. I’ve seen you with your cell phone out on a Friday night, plucking the low-hanging fruit. You must have a dozen blondes in there, half your age, looking up at you and cooing ooh, pick me, pick me please, Sir. Well pick one then. Blue-eyed and beaming and too young to know better, that’s your demographic. Play in your sandlot and leave me alone. SOMEONE has to do the work around here.”

Sir’s expression never changed. There was a kind of alteration to the air about him. Almost like a change in the light.

“It’s your mission, Agnes,” he said.

Mary gave him the largest smile permitted by the AGRA Affect.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Anthea is your mission director. She’ll see you out and take care of setting you up.”

Mary shook her head. None of this brought her any nearer to knowing the answer to her question. Had she ever actually wanted John? Wanted him badly enough to be sincerely jealous of the man who would always be there ahead of her?

END OUTTAKE


End file.
